REMSON. [Shakes his head.] Humph! She'd ought to be glad to get home, Miss Ethel.
ETHEL. She didn't seem to feel that way. [Takes book and seats herself by fireplace.] But we'll try to make her change her mind. Just think of it... she's been forty-six days on the steamer!
REMSON. Can it be possible, miss?
ETHEL. Wasn't that the street door just now, Remson?
REMSON. I thought so, Miss Ethel. [Moves to door.] Oh! Mrs. Masterson.
MRS. MASTERSON. [In doorway; a Boston Brahman, aged fifty, wearing street costume, black.] Any news yet, Remson?
REMSON. None, madam.
MRS. MASTERSON. Master Frederick is at the dock?
REMSON. Yes, madam.
DR. MASTERSON. [Enters; slightly younger than his wife, a dapper little man, bald and henpecked.] No news from the steamer, my dear?